Chapter Eleven: The Immortal of the Yellow Mountain 1

Long Wind Village is an ordinary settlement nestled in the hollow of a mountain peak. Aside from the surrounding trees, the only notable feature is the small burial mound behind the mountain, which the villagers often worship.

Due to years of isolation from the outside world, the people here remain in a primitive feudal era; any cultivator passing by is revered as a celestial being by these naïve and ignorant villagers. Such is the case with the small burial mound behind the mountain—it has become a sacred presence.

Atop the burial mound stands a humble temple, housing a peculiar statue. Though it wears human clothing and stands upright, its head and hands are those of a beast, making it neither fully human nor entirely animal.

At this very moment, a weasel, cunning and furtive, pokes its head out of the temple and heads toward the village. Its sense of smell is sharp—it has already detected the presence of the Fire Kirin and Little Qing. The weasel’s purpose is clear: to prevent those two from causing any trouble.

This creature is the Yellow Immortal of the area. If outsiders do not threaten its interests, it leaves them be, but should they cross the line, it will show no mercy. This place had been carefully claimed by the Yellow Immortal years ago, and it has no intention of surrendering it to anyone.

Holding its breath, it disguises itself entirely as an ordinary weasel, carefully approaching the Fire Kirin and Little Qing, determined to keep a close eye on their every move.

Fire Kirin said, “Little Qing, you’re just too sensitive. Relax, nothing unexpected will happen.”

Just then, an elder approached the village entrance. He was the village chief, unlike the other villagers—he did not harbor much resentment toward outsiders. With a warm, genial smile, he seemed approachable and kind.

He invited Fire Kirin and Little Qing into his courtyard. The village chief was exceedingly polite, perhaps because they were young and not yet grown. His hospitality was gentle and considerate.

As they ate and chatted, the atmosphere quickly became familiar. It turned out the village had encountered outsiders before. Some of these visitors harbored ill intentions, even coveting treasures from the Yellow Immortal’s burial mound behind the mountain.

Had the Yellow Immortal’s magical prowess not been formidable, those outsiders would have already taken the treasures. Since then, the villagers had grown wary, shutting their doors whenever strangers entered the village, refusing to step outside. Only the village chief remained open-minded, greeting newcomers and deciding how to treat them based on his impressions.

As for Fire Kirin and Little Qing, the chief naturally bypassed any scrutiny—a child barely in their teens could hardly pose a threat.

But in the next moment, Little Qing detected an unusual scent of uric acid. Her keen sense of smell picked it up, though she had no idea they had already fallen victim to a trap, only now becoming aware.

Little Qing cried, “Brother, don’t drink!”

Fire Kirin asked, “What’s wrong?”

Little Qing demanded, “Who are you, really? Why are you impersonating the village chief? Speak!”

Ignoring Fire Kirin’s confusion, she fixed her gaze on the chief before them, interrogating him directly.

If her judgment was correct, the chief was actually a transformed weasel, not the real village chief. Where the real chief was, she had no clue.

She had always possessed a sensitive nose. Once, when sneaking out to play at Flame Village, she encountered such a creature—the very Yellow Immortal the chief had spoken of.

Weasel urine contains a hallucinogenic substance; once it evaporates in the air, it induces illusions in ordinary people, immersing them in a harmless environment without their knowledge. This is its cunning.

Perhaps in the distant past, the weasel was a being akin to a celestial immortal, but now it is far from such. True immortals are vastly superior.

Fire Kirin watched Little Qing. Seeing her on edge, he aligned himself with her at once, clenching his fists and staring at the chief.

He knew Little Qing well; she would never act rashly against an innocent person. Her actions were always the result of careful deliberation.

The chief feigned confusion, “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

He pretended not to comprehend, maintaining his guise as the chief, even expressing some bewilderment at Little Qing’s accusation.

He had welcomed Fire Kirin and Little Qing out of kindness, only to be doubted—not expecting his goodwill to be met with suspicion.

Fire Kirin whispered to Little Qing, wondering if it was all a misunderstanding. The chief had done nothing suspicious so far, and even if he wasn’t the real chief, Fire Kirin couldn’t sense any aura of a cultivator. Was his perception failing him?

In truth, it wasn’t his senses that were at fault, but that both of them were already ensnared in an illusion, their perceptions muddled, unable to detect the presence of the weasel.

The entire village was an illusion; anyone entering would fall for the trap unless they possessed special means or were cultivators of higher realms, able to maintain clarity.

Aside from the small temple behind the mountain, the village itself was nothing but dilapidated ruins. Its inhabitants had long since become dust.

The most astonishing revelation was that the food and objects before Fire Kirin and Little Qing were nothing more than broken bowls and a pile of yellow earth.

They were entirely unaware. Even the well at the village entrance was dry, and Fire Kirin had drunk nothing but a handful of dirt. Immersed in the illusion, he felt no discomfort in his throat.

Fire Kirin watched Little Qing, who remained alert but did not act. He kept his guard up, continually observing the chief.

Suddenly, without warning, the chief remained still, but Fire Kirin’s face twisted into a strange smile. With a swift hand, he struck Little Qing, slicing open her waist and abdomen.

Little Qing gasped, “Brother, why…”

The weasel sneered, “You know too much.”

And so, Little Qing fell unconscious. When she awoke, she found herself in a pitch-dark, sinister place, bound by a rope that suppressed her powers.

Meanwhile, the real Fire Kirin was in a similar predicament. Less cautious than Little Qing, he had eaten a handful of dirt and promptly fell into a deep sleep. Before he awoke, he was already in another gloomy chamber, tightly bound by the shape-shifting weasel on a stone table.

This was the weasel’s lair—a place as eerie as a tomb. Besides several identical chambers, only the main hall was remotely human in appearance.

Above the main hall hung a signboard inscribed with “Yellow Mansion.” Outside stood a colossal weasel statue. Yet inside, the decor was entirely different—more ornate than the illusory village, even luxurious by comparison.

The weasel’s den was built beneath the mountain’s hollow, spanning the entire area.

Here, it had lain in wait for years, increasing its cultivation by absorbing the powers of passing travelers. Regardless of their strength, it was never picky.

If it encountered cultivators of higher realms, it would let them go; otherwise, it ensnared them in illusions, subdued them, and brought them to its lair to siphon their power.

Within the Yellow Mansion lay a rune formation specifically designed to drain the cultivation of practitioners. Once someone entered, the weasel would chant an incantation, activating the formation and forcibly extracting their powers, channeling them toward the weasel standing at the formation’s only exit.

Its path was one of demonic arts—shameful to some, but the weasel cared nothing for appearances. It intended to use every resource at its disposal to forge its own way.

On the road to attaining true power, only the strong have the right to speak; all else is empty talk.

Little Qing called out, “Brother, are you there?”

No answer came.

In truth, only a wall separated her from Fire Kirin, but he had not yet awakened, and her cries were destined to go unheard.

After calling softly several times, she gave up, fearing to alert their captor. She still didn’t know if the weasel was behind their abduction or someone else.

The last thing she saw was Fire Kirin’s face; she had thought he killed her, only now realizing it was nothing but the machinations of their captor.

She was bound to a chair, drugged and powerless. Struggling was futile—was she to be at the mercy of this fiend?

She racked her mind for a way out.

Meanwhile, Fire Kirin, oblivious to his predicament, slept soundly, having fallen step by step into the weasel’s trap. The potent drug ensured his deep slumber.

Yet something extraordinary was happening to him. A faint glow emanated from his body, conspicuous in the subterranean gloom. If the weasel were present, it might have seized upon this curious phenomenon.

A small entity poked about within him, finally selecting a spot to jump from Fire Kirin’s body and slip into a crack in the floor.

No one knew what transpired here, and soon after, the ritual began. The weasel started to place Fire Kirin and Little Qing into the rune formation of the Yellow Mansion.

Positioned at the sole exit, it began chanting.

Suddenly, the Yellow Mansion began to change. The runes on the floor shimmered into intricate patterns, and an invisible force field filled the entire mansion. At that moment, the gates slammed shut—the ritual had officially begun.